"Engla-and! Engla-and!”

A solitary cry rings out across a medieval square in Guimaraes, northern Portugal, but finds no takers. Roonaldo has just confirmed England’s victory over Croatia, but the three hundred fans gathered at the cafés, nursing cold ones and platters of ham, cheese, squid and olives are more interested in football than in tribalism. The plasma screens outside the cafés are watched by fans gathered for the football Lisdoonvarna that is Euro 2004. The flags and shirts of all 16 nations and more are everywhere. At one table, I spot England, Croatia, Germany and Portuguese shirts. The first Croatian goal sparks a few cheers and a ripple of applause, but it’s all too friendly for tribal chants. England’s goals and victory meet a loud response, but none of the blood-curdling calls to battle I had feared.
Photographer friend Benedict and I repair to a wonderful fish restaurant in a sea of Italian press corps who seem to be celebrating their side’s imminent departure from Portugal. We digest the consequence of tonight’s results. We now have tickets for the hottest quarter final – the hosts against England in Lisbon in three days’ time. “And France play Greece? That’s France in the semis then”, we decide, before ordering cataplana.
We also have tickets for Italy v Bulgaria the following evening. The mathematics of qualification are beyond even me, and I have a maths degree. But it seems Italy need a skinful of goals and have to hope that the Scandihoovians don’t have a 2-2 draw. Maybe Peter Reid can explain it to me…
Our seats are right in front of the pundits. Des, Tel and Andy are yards away, and stay in their glass cage for the duration. Behind us is the German emplacement, and right on 745, Der Kaiser himself sits down to watch the action in the fresh air with us mere mortals. It’s living legend football royalty and no mistake. I nod and smile and he returns my greeting. “Good to see Ross here for hotpress”, Beckenbauer’s probably thinking. “Hope Benedict catches my better side”.
But Benedict gets no chance. A supercharged young German screams “Franz! Franz!”, and leaps over our chairs before tumbling onto Benedict’s camera bag. By now he is frothing at the mouth. “The greatest man on the planet!”, he wails, “the greatest German who ever lived!” he declaims in four languages. Franz is no longer smiling, and anyway, Italy are about to kick off.
The Azzurri play a completely baffling formation (we eventually decide it’s a 6-1-3) and are determined not to concede but unsure how to get it from back to front. They are rattled every time Martin Petrov sets off down the left at speed before launching yet another fine cross. When he scores from the spot the whole Bulgarian support levitates as one, and the Italians are already booking the next flight home. When Vieri joins “Bruce” del Piero in the second half, they are still short on both inspiration and perspiration. Not even Cassano’s last-gasp winner can stop the Viking “conspiracy”: the other match finishes 2-2, and it’s “Ciao Baby”.
Next night we’re in Porto watching TV again as the Czech reserves dismantle Germany’s finest – i.e Ballack and a bunch of clueless cloggers. We head to bed despite the imminent Festa de Sao Joao. It’s the biggest party in Porto’s year, when the whole city stays up until dawn in a frenzy of fireworks and plastic hammers (don’t ask!).
“So – you are ready to lose?”
Teresa fixes me with a dark-eyed stare, then starts giggling helplessly. “I’m sorry, I’m only joking!” Teresa’s holding the fort at Hertz in downtown Porto the next morning – her colleagues are still sleeping off their plastic hammers.
I’m already tired of saying “I’m not English, I’m Irish”. How do I explain that I bought the tickets last August? That at that stage I hoped Ireland would take their place as the equals of the Greeks or Bulgarians, another upstart team from the edge of Europe that might just win the damn thing?
That even if Ireland didn’t make it, I had always wanted to attend a major championships like the Euros or the World Cup? And that after 21 years in London, I have grown tolerant enough of my neighbours to wish their football team well? Never mind that JT and Super Frank from the mighty Blues – that’s Chelsea to you – are now the beating heart of the English team.
But I didn’t get into it with Teresa, just smiled and wished her luck for that evening. We were soon on the Ribbon of Death – the A1 to Lisbon. The Portuguese driving style belies their sweet hospitable nature. There you are, doing a respectable 140 kph in the outside lane, when suddenly an SUV fills all your mirrors, flashing and honking for you to pull over. Inches separate you from your end - and just when you move out again, some bugger in a Merc overtakes you on the inside at 175 or more.
Three hours later we hit the Lisbon suburb of Luz, dominated by the impressive Estadio and its equally imposing twin, a major mall on the other side of the highway. It’s full of fans of all hues and shirts of all kinds. One chap in an Ireland World Cup 2002 shirt is bemused when I throw a cheery ‘Howya!’ his way.
More worrying is a contingent of Germans in full Portuguese kit, doubtless in search of a little Schadenfreude. The atmosphere steadily builds through the afternoon. The gentility of Guimaraes is forgotten as the chants get louder, the beer flows faster, and the mall fills to bursting. But there’s little shaven-headed shirtless proto-fascism on display; it’s more a loud good-natured multiculturalism, a cheery politeness and a pleasant mixture of genders and races.
The mall’s contents soon pour into the Estadio de Luz, the finest stadium I’ve ever been in (at least until Sunday). It’s a full house of 65,000, evenly split between England and Portugal fans. Before I can decide whether to cheer for England, Owen has knocked one in and the stadium erupts – or at least the English half of it. I’m on my feet with the rest of them, and become increasingly tense every time the Portuguese surge forward past a listless Becks or a clueless Scholes. Gerrard and Lampard do their best, but no team can play 4-2-2 for long.

The Portuguese scarf-waving that accompanies every Ronaldo stepover is silenced when the great Figo is withdrawn to make way for… Postiga? A Spurs Sub in place of the Great Galactico? But normal scarf service resumes with Helder’s header past the hapless James. We all know the rest of the story – have England ever won a penalty shoot-out? Only Motty knows…
As Ricardo scores, pandemonium reigns until the Portuguese remember their manners. Sheepish smiles accompany handshakes, hugs and kisses for the departing England fans. The hosts’ hospitality lasts until we exit, then they return to a loud and lusty “Portugal-al-lay!”.
The Ribbon of Death is quiet as we head for Porto in the small hours, the sleepy city fitfully roused by convoys of black scooters beeping furiously and flying red and green flags.
Sunday we see the godlike footballing genius that is the Czech team – the mesmerising Nedved, Poborsky, Rosicky, Baros, Koller and co. The Dragao stadium is equally awesome – a wonder of modern architecture in a jaw-dropping setting, all swooping curves of concrete and space set against the rolling hills of the Douro valley.
The lively Danes are filleted by the Czechs in a spell-binding display of the best football I have ever seen live. “The Czechs will win the tournament,” I confidently predict to anyone who will listen over the next three days. Th rest is startling history.
For these two football fans, our week at Euro 2004 confirmed just how wonderful it is to see the great football in the flesh, with fans from all corners united in their love of the beautiful game, without suffering the inanity of television punditry. Do I need to see the replay? Not really – it doesn’t matter what anyone thinks of Meier or Collina, because the referee’s decision is final. The Portuguese were wonderful hosts and served a mean cataplana. What more could I ask for?
Personal highlights? Cech, Van der Sar, Cole, Larsson, Baros, Nedved, Lampard, Rooney, Ibrahimoviç, Davids, Gronkjaer, Maniche, Ronaldo, Deco and Cataplana. Lowlifes? Only three. Van Nistelrooy - stop whinging for God’s sake. Eriksson – you should be embarrassed to be on 100 times Brückner’s salary. And Totti? No further comment necessary.
But what of the Irish “800 Years” brigade who cheer Man U, the ‘Pool, the Arse or even the Blues and then scream abuse at the same players in an England shirt? This trip confirmed for me that I’ve no time for it, that the real Peace Process means being able to let go of all that crap. Cantona, Zola, Vieira and Henry gave the Premiership Sexy Football, and with it dismantled the Little England mentality that had blighted the game there for years.
The Little Ireland mindset is alive and well anywhere from your local to the marble halls of Pairc Uí Crócaigh, yet its time has long gone. Everyone in Portugal applauded great play and great sportsmanship wherever it happened and whoever displayed it. To do so is to celebrate artistry and to exalt the human spirit – to be One Nation Under A Groove.
Another bowl of cataplana when you’re ready, José.

Photography by Benedict Jenks
Coming Wednesday on hotpress.com: Tony Cascarino poops the Greek's party...